


Put it on Ice

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:04:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14742504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: The sound of the TV is inaudible in the bar, and even if it weren’t, the screams and cheers and slams of palms on the wooden bar would override it.





	Put it on Ice

**Author's Note:**

> (phx kagahimu/vgk aomura; same verse as [poke check](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356353), [hooked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11678850), & [results don't count](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12220791), though i hope this fic stands on its own)
> 
> when i first wrote this au i wasn't thinking at all about how either team would do this season but here we are with the coyotes on one end and the golden knights on the other, so

Over a thousand miles away, in another time zone, Daiki scores into an empty net. The red light goes off; some of the fans up in Canada might be making some kind of noise or maybe they’re completely silent. The sound of the TV is inaudible in the bar, and even if it weren’t, the screams and cheers and slams of palms on the wooden bar would override it.

Daiki’s teammates surround him; the camera pans to Atsushi in the net, looking his usual nonchalant-but-kind-of-pissed (they’d been in their own zone five-on-six for a minute and a half; he’s got more than a right). Under the bar, Tatsuya squeezes Taiga’s fingers; his face is still stuck on the screen and its slow motion replay of Daiki’s goal, the wrister from just outside the zone, just enough on it to get far past anyone skating the other way and straight into the net. It’s not as dramatic as a sudden-death goal, or something that would put his team ahead at the last second, but it’s pretty damn good, and it says more than that. Daiki wants to win now; he’s not going to wait and make Atsushi do all the dirty work or stretch this out for drama.

They're back in the center for the faceoff; the play goes quick, not quite a formality but the Golden Knights’ win seems all but inevitable for the last few seconds until the clock hits zero. Daiki’s back in the defensive zone, the cameras catching the embrace Daiki wraps Atsushi in; another chorus of cheers breaks out among the supporters clad in gold and white, and Taiga wraps his arm around Tatsuya’s shoulders. Tatsuya looks up at him, grinning; Taiga wants to kiss him about five seconds ago.

“If it can’t be us…” Tatsuya says.

“Yeah," says Taiga.

Tatsuya’s words are a little bitter, like the remains of his drink mixed with melted ice in the bottom of the glass. They’ve both had time to let go of missing the playoffs, but it still stings Tatsuya, and it stings Taiga that it stings Tatsuya. As good as it feels to see Daiki and Atsushi win the conference, it would feel better if it was Taiga and Tatsuya on the other side of the faceoffs, win or lose.

Twisting to gather his sweater, Taiga kisses the side of Tatsuya's forehead and squeezes his hand again.

“You ready?”

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya.

Taiga leaves a generous tip, for good service and no recognition (as much as a hockey town as Vegas has become, two players from the worst team in the Western Conference don’t register amid the crowd of fans fixated on the television). Tatsuya grasps his hand, his other clutching his phone as he texts while walking. Taiga peers over; it’s the group chat. His own phone vibrates in his back pocket.

“They won’t get it for a while,” Tatsuya says, adding yet another text anyway.

“They’ll see the timestamps,” says Taiga. “They’ll appreciate it.”

(Atsushi will, at least; whether he clues Daiki in or whether Daiki notices or neither—it’s not of utmost importance, but it’s the tiny things that always make a difference.)

The strip is glowing; car horns are honking, whether to do with the team’s victory or the shitty traffic or both Taiga doesn’t know. A man in a suit rushes past them, and a woman in jeans goes the other way. The desert air is still and stale, just like it is at home. It’s a little selfish to wish they were there right now, maybe, but Taiga does. All the damn game’s made him want to do is play hockey, and if they were home he could grab all his gear and go out in the front yard with Tatsuya until they’re dead tired and have each taken several slapshots to each limb. They’re here, though; there are ice rinks and asphalt courts they could theoretically practice on, but it’s not their courts or the roller rinks back in LA. Maybe it’s a stupid sentiment to wish for meaning in the ground underneath the wheels of his rollerblades; maybe Taiga’s just drunker than he’d thought and the heat isn’t helping.

“Tatsuya…”

“Yeah?”

The glow of the street streaks light on Tatsuya’s face like anti-shadows. He’s standing close to the edge of the curb, hand out to hail a cab, and Taiga’s already forgotten what he’d wanted to say. It might have been nothing; perhaps he just wants Tatsuya’s attention, or to lift his clumsy fingers up to Tatsuya’s neck and play with the chain around it.

“I want to play,” Taiga says.

“I know,” says Tatsuya. “I do, too.”

A taxi, dispatcher name peeling off the front door, pulls up to the curb. Tatsuya holds the door open for Taiga and gets in behind him, relaying the cross streets of Daiki and Atsushi’s apartment  to the driver.

Tatsuya always wants to play hockey; he’d probably jump at the chance to surgically attach a stick to his hand. Having known Tatsuya as long as he has, Taiga can say this with a certainty that’s not entirely joking. Tatsuya’s always been like this. There’s no why to any of these things, but if there were, the way the passion burns brighter than the Sky Beam shooting into the night inside him, fiercely kindled, would be up there. But so would the way he stick-handles through traffic, the way he goes in the shootout, and the reinforced rivets of hundreds of coaches and books and tutorials to always finish your checks that Tatsuya’s drilled deep into every muscle of his body.

“I want to go to a rink,” says Taiga.

He’s whining a little, but he knows Tatsuya won’t say no.

“Okay,” says Tatsuya, and he leans forward to talk to the driver.

They find a rink that’s open late; they’re the only patrons but it’s better that way. The lights of the arcade and the shuttered food court are the ads and jumbotrons in their minds; the ice is open like the ponds they didn’t grow up playing on (some day, Taiga’s going to get the whole story of what that’s like out of Tatsuya and Atsushi). The rented skates dig into Taiga’s ankles and he doesn’t give a shit, and the only time they stop in the middle is for Tatsuya to pull Taiga over along the boards for a selfie.

They’re crowding the frame, faces flushed; Taiga’s still looking at the screen as the shutter clicks. They look happy.

Tatsuya doesn’t send the picture to Atsushi and Daiki.

“I’ll show them when they get back here,” says Tatsuya.

Taiga doesn’t mind keeping the moment between the two of them for now.


End file.
